


Lay Me Down To Sleep

by PepoClap



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: AU in which Sarah doesn't die, Established Relationship, F/M, Insomnia, Nightmares, Oneshot, Reminiscing, Romance, Sarah's there to help, Takes place during Fallout 4, The Lone Wanderer can't sleep, They deserve a happy ending, slight domestic fluff, working through issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28953930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepoClap/pseuds/PepoClap
Summary: Take away the mythical status, the achievements, the commendations, the rumors. At the core, the Lone Wanderer is only human. Not born a soldier, a killer, no, instead what the Capital Wasteland knows as the "Lone Wanderer" is still just the kid from Vault 101. Looking to continue on his father's legacy, improving the quality of life for the people of the wasteland.Still, there's always a price to pay. At night, the terrors that hold him under drive him insane. Despite being labeled as this untouchable being, the Lone Wanderer, can't sleep.Fortunately, he isn't alone anymore.
Relationships: Lone Wanderer/Sarah Lyons, MLW/Sarah Lyons, Male Lone Wanderer/Sarah Lyons
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Lay Me Down To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired again to write some stuff (thats not cringe, oh my god old me what were you writing) and did this one as a prequel to Crash Course. I actually wanna rewrite that fic, so I thought I should warm myself back into writing Fallout by getting a oneshot out. 
> 
> Not Beta'd, so probably some mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy!

The pain of colliding with the metallic shelving unit made him second guess where his dream ended, and where reality started. A very real pain enveloped his body, his bones aching with pain where they smashed against the steel display. Blood rushed into his skull, drowning his brain with an excess of fluid. An overwhelming feeling of vertigo rushed into his veins, bile rising into his esophagus.

His thorax heaved, trying to rush air into his lungs. Vomit pooled into his cheeks, his lunch of Blamco Mac N Cheese threatening to spill over. Choking down the chunky mess back into the windpipe, the wanderer tried to get his senses.

His eyelids parted opened, dim sunlight cracking through the slits of the ruined roof of the store. Oversized roaches scattered around his vision, diving into the various packages of expired food he tipped to the floor.

Bringing his hand to wipe his running nose, blood replaced what he thought was snot. A dizzying color of crimson stained his skin, fear rising to meet the various emotions running wild in his frontal cortex.

Checking his body for injuries, he curled his toes and balled his fists. If he could at least shift from this uncomfortable spot, in between crevices filled with fallout covered consumables, he’d be okay.

His right shoulder protested, needles of blinding pain threatening the edges of his edges with dots of black. An all encompassing migraine was eating away at his consciousness, spurred on by the overwhelming amount of sensory information his body was receiving.

Even when he was moving his uninjured appendages, his head was all but paralyzing himself to rest in this spot. Which, if he wasn’t in any immediate danger, he’d be alright with it.

The thump, thump of heavy footsteps approaching him cut resting out of the equation. He brought his dizzy gaze towards the source, where a ten foot mutant was cracking a disfigured smile at him from across the store.

Pushing past all of the protests his body was raising, he reached with his uninjured arm for his hunting rifle. Curling his fingers around the wood of the stock, he pulled it from it’s resting place. Knocking over several packages of Pork N Beans and Cram in various stages of decay in the process.

Shifting so that he was in a sitting position, he gingerly placed the butt of the stock against his dislocated shoulder. The recoil was going to hurt like a bitch, but he couldn’t shoot left handed.

The Super mutant was getting closer, his two friends coming with him, hoping to steal a leg or an arm, he guessed. He took a breath, aiming down the iron sights. They didn’t see him snatch his gun, so he could fire a shot or two before they could react.

Finding the perfect opportunity, he squeezed the trigger, bracing for the painful recoil that was supposed to come with. Instead, what followed was a pitiful click of his gun jamming.

Why couldn’t his dream self keep his guns cleaned? I mean, if you’re going to make me fight your battles, the least you could do was keep the gun ready to fire.

Muttering a profanity to himself, he cocked back the bolt. He stuck his fingers into the chamber, fiddling for the bullet jammed in place.

Loud laughs reverberated in the empty supermarket, the mutants seeing him struggle with his jammed gun. He figured that even if it was in a state to fire, he wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyways.

Dropping his gaze from them, he let his tired head rest against the valley between the top two shelves. Where his overwhelmed brain wanted rest, the rest of his body began to fall into panic.

The bile he pushed back down into his stomach, was coming back, this time was reinforcements. The burning sensation of his stomach acid also being brought up, blistering his throat.

He was letting out shallow breaths, his lungs chiding him all the while, trying to force him to take deeper breaths.

His thorax was losing its battle against his heart, which was threatening to push free from his rib cage.

It’d be funny if I wasn’t dreaming. Imagine that, the mythical Lone Wanderer so deluded from insomnia that he’s lost the plot.

Resigning himself to his fate, whether in the dream world or in reality, he didn’t care.

A moment passed, then another. No sledgehammer slammed into chest, no bullet had pierced his skull. None of the executors had done him any harm. His eyes opened in confusion, his eyelids parting just in time to see the bullets tear through the air. The sharp crack of the projectiles following soon after.

Feeling the heavy slam of bodies falling around him, he clambered to his feet. His back was sore, but the FEV infected humans lying had much worse. Tossing his gaze over his shoulder, the familiar form of his brothers and sisters came into view.

At the forefront, her.

The Guardian Angel that saved his life a decade ago during his clash with mutants in Chevy Chase. The Sentinel that extended the invitation to join the Lyons’ Pride. The woman he gave his life to, so that the Capital Wasteland could have purified water.

Sarah Lyons, the one that kept him anchored in reality. The Lone Wanderer at his core, when stripped of his deeds and achievements, past the rumors and commendations - was only a human being. Even though he tried staying true to the "do-good" kid fresh outta Vault 101, the wasteland had other plans.

He tried to fix all its problems, and during the night, he suffered the consequences.

The bitch about memories is that they get replayed without your consent. Whether it’s the good ones or the bad ones, is up for the director living inside your brain to decide.

His director was a sadistic fuck, he guessed.

* * *

Following the thought, he woke with a start, a sheet of sweat smeared across his body. His limbs felt like they were lined with weights, his chest heaving under the pressure.

Letting out the breath that he was holding hostage inside of his throat, he scanned the dim room. His right arm was slung over the torso of his sleeping lover, her blonde hair spilt past the base of her neck, resting on her shoulders.

He shifted his weight, the mattress groaning in protest. Give me a break, old man. Can’t a mattress get some rest already?

Dropping a small apology into the silent room, he reached over to the night stand on his left. Slipping his Pip-Boy onto his forearm, he flicked it on. The harsh green knocked him out of his half-asleep state and back into the land of the living.

Damn, it’s early.

Slipping out of the comfort of the bed, Alex rose to his feet. A rush of blood rose to his head in protest, his body doing it’s best to get him to lie back down.

Still, his mind was made up. There a glass bottle of liver damaging liquid with his name on it, and Alex needed relief from another restless night. Though he only touched the vice a time or two in the vault, he partook in the activity much more often. Exchanging the keys to his body in exchange for a few hours of drunken stupor.

For the life of him though, he couldn’t push himself over the edge. Maybe it was a part of the kid straight from the vault telling him to stop. Whenever his lips kissed the burning liquid, he couldn’t bring himself to ecstasy. He couldn’t drink until his thirst was quenched, no, at some point his body refused to let him reach release.

So he was stuck in a loop where even his vices wouldn’t bring him total relief. Instead, he wallowed in insomnia where he couldn’t help but laugh. He was drowning in a pool only two feet deep, and even though his entire form wasn’t submerged, he was holding his own head under the water.

You need help, man.

He’d blinked once, and the distinct cold sensation of the glass lip of the bottle brought him out of his thoughts. The mellow taste pushed down his esophagus, the warmth of the drink following right after. Smiling to himself in the hazy light, he muttered to himself.

“Damn, am I that much of a featherweight?” A small laugh escaped past his lips afterwards, the drapery of comfort that the drink provided enveloping his figure. Maybe he wouldn’t go over the edge today either.

“Yeah, you are.”

His pupils widened in surprise, a couple of excuses lining themselves up - ready to be used.

Sitting on the couch next to him, her shoulder pressing against his frame, was the one person he didn’t want to wake up.

Blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail, matched with a grey shirt that belonged to him was Sarah.

“You can talk to me about it, you know.” Guilt pooled in his gut, dread dropping like a weight in his stomach. His lips parted, but the words died in his throat.

A choked noise escaped his lips, the fallen vowels and consonants in his windpipe forming into a ball.

Their eyes met, her gaze filled with an overwhelming mix of emotions. Concern for the man suffering not from physical injuries that she could at least see, but from the ones residing in his head. Worry because she didn’t know if she was doing enough.

Setting the bottle on the coffee table, Alex let his mouth open once, close, and open again. Sarah could see his nervous tic spring into action, a twitch of his left shoulder upwards. Fingers tapping against his thigh, tears threatening the edges of his vision.

“How… how do you deal with it? I, um-” He took a deep breath, his nose threatening to spill over like he was a child just barely getting a handle of his emotions. Clearing his throat, he continued. “I was never brought up a soldier, I’m not this mythical figure. I’m just me, the kid fresh from the Vault.”

He stopped himself, the back of his hand wiping his runny nose. The tear ducts he tried his best to keep closed broke past their shackles. Tears split across his vision, blurring the face of the elder sitting across from him.

His voice was teetering, threatening to break, but now he wasn’t entirely sure if he could keep himself steady.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t close my eyes because all of th-the shit keeps coming back. I’m tired, Sarah, but I don’t wanna go under.”

He was only semi aware of how he must’ve looked then, tears running past his cheeks, dying on his stubble. Nose running freely, hands shaking with nerves. His knee bounced in anticipation, waiting for her reply. Waiting for her to tear into him for being reckless. Waiting for her to say something that would cut him deeper than a bayonet could.

Irrational, he knew. But the fear wasn’t something he could push aside so easily.

Fingers curling around the neck of the alcohol he didn’t know the name of, let alone the difference that came with it. He was going to raise it to his mouth, so that he could move past the state of being buzzed and functional, to being a dead man walking.

Her smaller hand pressed against his then. Her face curled in a soft smile, lips moving with a response. She was responding to him, but he was caught in the inordinate beauty of her, even in her hastily assembled appearance.

Hand tightening around his wrist, she pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace.

“I, or anyone can’t give you the right answer. But you’ve got me, so fuck the answer.” Smiling against her collarbone, he let out a hiccupped laugh.

“Corny.” His muffled voice rang out, the smile pressing deeper into her skin.

Huffing out a protest, she replied, matching his smirk. “Hey! I thought it was pretty good.” Sarah pulled back so that she could see the face of her lover, his smile contrasting with the tears pooled in his eyes.

He tried letting out a laugh, but a mangled sob emitted from his throat instead. Pulling him back into her embrace, her heart went out to the man who killed for her. Mutant, human, and anything in between. Whether he needed to perish in an irritated chamber to give the Potomac clean water, or when he saved her from a squadron of Enclave who pinned her down. He was her sword, and as long as she gave the word, he would complete his orders to a tee.

Sarah couldn’t help but feel guilty at the thought. Her Sentinel, her Wanderer, her Husband was suffering the consequences during her non waking hours. She was at least half responsible for not noticing until recently.

She read a book about it once, when she first arrived to the Capital Wasteland all those years ago. It was a tome sitting on the middle shelf in the laboratory, off in a corner. Inside were pages on mythological creatures of old, and one of them struck her as a profoundly beautiful.

The Jian, a bird unable to fly until it finds its other half.

Sarah, the passionate Sentinel from a decade ago, and the kid she found fighting an innumerable amount of mutants in Chevy Chase. They had each other, and that was enough.

She wasn’t about to let her other half freefall under the murky waters.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading lots of Fallout 4 fics about Nate/Piper and honestly, it's been the thing that's rekindled my passion for writing Fallout. Thankfully, it's been years since I first gave writing a shot, and compared to my first works, this is way better. I spent some time reading stuff I have saved, and man, is that embarrassing to go back to.
> 
> Good news though! I am looking to redo the entirety of my Fallout fic, "Crash Course" because I actually have a proper COHESIVE plot, and I'm like several years removed from the rough writing that I first put on paper. I'm really busy but hopefully I get the first two or three chapters pushed out soon.


End file.
